Red Wax

Everyday, my job would take me far out into the woods. Everyday, I passed the cabin. It was derelict, an old relic of a bygone era, or perhaps evidence of a failed hermit lifestyle. I paid it no mind at night because it was always darkened, completely.

But tonight, a red candle burned in the window.

Much to my misfortune, part of my job involved informing campers posted up in restricted areas to either move elsewhere or receive a fine. The cabin was made of old, dry, rotten wood: a veritable fire hazard in this season. Some hoodlums were doing who-knows-what, putting the entire area in danger of flame.

Maybe I should just let this one go, I thought. Who knows what kind of people need to hide in a place like that? Criminals? Rowdy teenagers?

But my curiosity outweighed the fear. I parked my car on the side of the road, and walked up the dirt path, littered excessively with beer cans and broken glass. Stupid kids don’t know how to respect nature.

The candle wasn’t the only light coming from the cabin; there seemed to be another, larger glow from inside. The door was so rotten, I expected it to crumble in my hands. 

I was prepared to yell at these perps, but my words failed as I looked inside. The small interior had been fully renovated to look like a cozy little farmhouse, furnished with newly upholstered antique chairs and painted with warm orange walls. An antique bookshelf overflowed with leather bound classics and polished porcelain farm animals. At the end of the room, a fire burned in a cast iron stove, heating up a fragrant pot of food. I hadn’t noticed the smoke from outside…it must have been too dark.

“Can I help you, young man?”

My skeleton almost jumped from my skin. The voice came from behind me and belonged to a very short and very old woman, wearing a red checkered dress and a thick brown sweater. Her hair was pinned up tightly behind her head, and her complexion, though wrinkled and ancient, was healthy and warm.

“Oh my,” she croaked. “I’m so sorry I startled you!”

I collected myself, all my authority going out the window. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know that anyone lived here but…” I looked around. This place was so new, so clean, so unlike its exterior. “Um, you see, I work with the local park service and while you seem to have it contained, it is prohibited to have fires burning in this area.”

“I’ve been living here for forty years, and no one has told me that before,” she said innocently, hiding her thin, old hands in her long sleeves. I couldn’t believe what she was saying was true. If she keeps the inside so neat, why does the outside appear to be rotting?

The more I stood in the small room, the more I felt it was closing in on me, as if the fire was waiting to engulf the place. “I’m not trying to kick you from your own home or anything. Frankly, I’m worried that your living conditions may be creating a fire hazard, and I’d hate for you to lose such a beautiful place. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll send someone from the fire station tomorrow to—”

A thin hand found a place on my arm. Even through my sleeve, it felt hard as stone.

“You look troubled, young man,” she whispered. “Would you like to sit and have some tea, and tell me what it is that’s bothering you?”

Maybe it was the warmth of the room making me drowsy, or maybe I had just had a long day, but the suggestion was oddly pleasant.

“Eh, just one cup. Do you mind telling me your name?”

A porcelain kettle, white with delicately painted blue flowers, steamed on the side table. I sank down into one of the deliciously comfortable chairs while she poured the brown brew into a matching cup.

“Fay. Be careful, it’s hot. Drink slowly. Drink patiently. Now tell me your name.”

It was common black tea, earthy, like she had made it from nearby plants. One sip and I was warm all over, my fingertips to my toes.

“Adrian,” I said. “Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.”.

“You must try some,” she suggested, handing me a bowl that I didn’t even see her grab. “You’ll find it has a very familiar taste.”

It was a red, meaty stew packed with tomatoes, carrots, and potatoes, the mix of spices creating an aroma that filled the whole space, maybe even the whole forest.  I dipped my spoon in, and as soon as the soup hit my mouth, I knew what she meant. It tasted like…like something I had felt before.

“What’s in this soup?”

“Tell me what it tastes like, Adrian.”

“It tastes…like guilt.”

“What do you mean?”

I really was so drowsy. Did she have a place I could stay the night? Surely, I could no longer drive home.

“It tastes like… my hand, breaking my son’s jaw. It tastes like his pain.” I investigated the soup, afraid it would look back at me. “But I don’t have a son…”

“That’s not your guilt Adrian.” She sipped the soup straight from the bowl. The light from the fire seemed to smooth out some of her wrinkles. “My last visitor. What does your guilt taste like?”

I tried it again. The sour violent feeling didn’t leave, but my own memory assaulted me. The thump of a body and the crunch of a bike. The dark of night and a bitter crushing exhaustion were driving the car, even though I was behind the wheel. It tasted like the burning tires as I drove away, like the soap I used to wash off the blood.

“I should go home,” I said, but the words didn’t come out of my mouth properly. I drank some more tea, to wash down the taste, but even that tasted strange, like the way the lights leave someone’s eyes when you watch them die.

“You are much too tired. Rest here for the night,” she offered, placing one of her hands over my own. It wasn’t hard and curled with arthritis, but soft and young. Her eyes were blue, but not with cataracts. I could have sworn…

“I’m still worried…” I closed my eyes for a second, sleep teasing me, “about the fire. The forest…”

But I must have imagined the fire because the hearth was not lit. There hadn’t been a fire there for a long time; it was overgrown with moss.

“Stay here,” she whispered, leaning in closer, her breath hot and metallic. “Stay here with me Adrian, and your guilt will disappear.”

I looked to the window, and instead of a candle, there was only an old rotting wall, dripping with hot red wax.